


Portrait of a Mirror

by bean_allusions



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Gen, Meta, No Romance, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_allusions/pseuds/bean_allusions
Summary: A narrow reddish hallway, styled quite like one in an empty hotel, only with no doors or windows. In either direction, the hall came to a stop about twenty feet from him, but what really interested him were the only things hanging on the wall. In front of him hung portraits, black and white, the subjects serious and almost apathetic as they gazed miles into the lens. There were seven of them, standing ominously for him to choose, their glass frames glib and speckled with the barest amount of dust. Michael has a strange, heavy nightmare. Maybe it's the blue moon, maybe he really is dreaming, maybe his friends learned how to worm into his mind. He still has to find a way out.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> Another unfinished meta fic! I've found my writing niche. This is an old draft, I apologize for how much it probably blows. Oh well, apathetic Michael Palin will never not be interesting.

Michael opened his eyes to the wall of photographs. A second earlier he’d been sitting in his office, dozing off into his diary, his pen probably smudging the date of the 30th of July, 1977. The last thing he remembered was the beams of the full moon glinting off of his progressively deteriorating handwriting on the page, but here he was. 

A narrow reddish hallway, styled quite like one in an empty hotel, only with no doors or windows. In either direction, the hall came to a stop about twenty feet from him, but what really interested him were the only things hanging on the wall. In front of him hung portraits, black and white, the subjects serious and almost apathetic as they gazed miles into the lens. There were seven of them, standing ominously for him to choose, their glass frames glib and speckled with the barest amount of dust. 

Michael approached the leftmost portrait, its eyes seemingly following him as he moved. He shook his head, clearly, that wasn’t the case, and looked once again. Eric stared back at him, his gaze both a dare and a warning. Eric looked young, younger than the last time Michael had seen him a few months prior. Michael unconsciously felt himself step forward and watched his trembling fingers, bent gracefully, gently brush over the glass. Immediately he felt an aching pull, shut his eyes, and somehow felt light passing around him.


	2. No, Don't Tell Me... It's Something to Do with Moonlight.

When he opened his eyes again, Eric, sitting in a white armchair across from Michael’s, looked at him. He looked old, much older, too much older, but it made sense to Michael somehow, he didn’t know how but it had to. Eric barely looked surprised at his guest, leaning back and smiling with a familiar distant look in his piercing blue eyes.

"Michael." Eric said with a polite smirk, his hands folded lazily over his stomach. 

Michael did his best to reflect the posture of his partner, crossing his legs and leaning back nonchalantly. 

"Eric." 

“So the moon's timing was right? You found your way to us." 

Michael remembered what he'd seen on the news last week, that today was a blue moon, the first in three years. He pursed his lips and said nothing. 

"Bit apathetic eh? Oh well. Strange how this whole thing works anyway. I think I'm about forty years on from you right now. Weird, innit?" 

Eric was grinning. He was definitely as dynamic as the Eric Michael knew, quite possibly even more so. Still, he said nothing, partly from confusion and partly from stubbornness. This Eric wanted him to talk, Michael would not give him that satisfaction. He had to maintain some level of control here in Eric's world. 

"Still won't talk? Ah well. Not that it matters to you but Carey's doing well. Imagine, my own son, a Buddhist. Oh and Lily too, had her with Tania- you'll meet Tania soon, I suppose- and- oh do wipe that fucking frown off your face, you don't want to hear this and I don't want to tell it but we both know we must, we're in yout head anyway..." 

Somehow, Michael did know they must. Eric looked annoyed, and Michael made an effort to shift his posture and neutralize his expression. 

“Anyway, I kept making music and all that. I suppose I'm required to say I did hang on to Python the most and took advantage of the capitalizing that came with it, but that's just me. There's no way I'm the worst of our bunch."

Michael stayed quiet, and Eric sighed dramatically. 

“Look. I know very well neither of us wants to be here, but we somehow know we _must _be.”__

__He was right in this point, at least, Michael had never once felt the urge to scream or freak or ask what was happening. It was a strange kind of sleep paralysis, maybe, where his body moved without him, assuring him it would be over soon._ _

__”Have you wondered _why _you’re here? Now? Why you?” Eric whispered apathetically. “Well I don’t. Maybe there isn’t a reason after all, maybe it just wants you to know.”___ _

___Michael didn’t have to ask what “it” was. He didn’t want to, anyway._ _ _

___Old Eric took a deep breath. “I’ll let you off then. Might want to talk to the others, might make it easier. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Michael. You’re a good lad.”_ _ _

___”Thank you, Eric.” Michael said softly, not really knowing why._ _ _

___”I’m a warning, you see. I think we all are, for you.” Eric whispered, sounding almost scared. “Apathy, greed, something or other. I’m not all that, of course, but I don’t _know _why I’m here. I don’t know why _you’re _here.”_____ _ _

___”I’m sorry.”, Michael whispered._ _ _

___”Ah well, off you go. See you in a few decades.” Eric got up, and Michael felt himself be pulled backwards very quickly._ _ _

___All of a sudden he was back in the hall, looking at Eric’s portrait, but it was different now. The older Eric looked at him, smirking just slightly at Michael._ _ _

___As he felt himself walking over to another portrait, he took a moment to reflect. That Eric very much looked like a much older version of the Eric Michael knew, perhaps he was an anachronistic dream made up by Michael’s convoluted mind._ _ _

___Michael didn’t want to think about the possibility that anything Eric had said was true._ _ _

___He came to a portrait of Carol, her hair flowing around her stern expression. Her long lashes seemed frozen mid-flutter, her piercing eyes, usually smiling, cold._ _ _

___Once again, Michael reached up and brushed the glass._ _ _


	3. Carol of the Bells

There was Carol across from him, smiling slightly, looking elegant. 

She was definitely elderly, probably around the age of the Eric Michael had just met in the other portrait, but she still looked as gracefully energetic as ever. Her blonde hair looked the same as the Carol Michael knew, and it shook a little when she raised her head to greet him. 

"Have you seen anyone here already?" The Carol in the chair smiled. 

"Eric told me I should talk to whoever I met next. Other than him, no." Michael sat apprehensively, wanting to trust the woman across from him but still not entirely sure if it was even the same Carol he knew. 

"Well it would certainly be nice", Carol laughed. "This is new for all of us. I wasn't even sure if you'd show up." 

"So um..." 

"Maybe it's best if I make this quick." Said Carol, seeming to understand Michael's inadvertent hesitation. "If you've only seen Eric and me so far, you still have a few to get through." 

Michael gave a small, gracious smile, glad that this was going more smoothly than the last one, whatever these were. 

"Oh, we'll go on just fine. It's not all perfect, but we're alright. For the most part, people still like us. At least they tell me that, I'd be fucked if they're really lying."

The older Carol chuckled at her statement, her red lips pulled into a changed but familiar smile. 

"And they also tell me I look like I haven't aged a day in face nor manner. I'm not sure if it's meant to be a compliment, but surely I'll take it as one!" 

"You still look and sound lovely, Carol." Michael responded, not untruthfully. He'd expected an ill-tempered matron, he supposed, but she was still just his Carol. 

"Thank you, love. I know I'm older, but I think and act as I did in my youth. I don't suppose I could stop thinking that way if I tried, really." 

With this, Carol gave a quick sigh, which Michael took as meaning his meeting was coming to a close. The older blonde spoke once more. 

"My message for you, Michael, at least I hope it's the message I'm meant to give you, is to take care of yourself. There will inevitably be stress, but remember to be kind to yourself first. Who knows, you might turn out to look as good as me in a few decades!" 

Carol posed dramatically, unable to contain her fit of giggles that Michael reciprocated, feeling slightly more at ease for the first time in this strange dream. 

"Take care, Mike." Carol whispered as she began to get up from the armchair. 

The young man in question barely had time to say "Take care" back to her before he found himself back in the hall, a full-colour photograph of a smiling elderly Carol Cleveland meeting his eyes. Looking at his reflection in the glass, he attempted to rule his messy hair, which was getting longer than he would have liked, and scratched the sideburns he was attempting to grow out again. It was hard to believe he would end up as easy on the eye as Carol did in forty years. Ah well, no time to think now, his feet had already let him to another portrait in the line. 

Although the picture of John was perfectly at Palin's eye level, the elder's characteristic stern and disapproving expression still gave him the atmosphere of being much taller.

Well, what did Michael have to lose? It's not as if he had a choice, his hand was already raising to touch the glass whether he wanted to or not. He felt the pull.


	4. 2 John 1:12

Michael found himself in another chair, a little more rigid and a little less comfortable than the soft armchairs from before. A very old, very English looking John sat across, still towering over Michael as they sat.

"Hello John." Michael spoke more clearly now, unprompted, more confident in his dream.

"Michael! Took you long enough." Old John looked customarily polite, but his smug side showed more in old age, Michael noticed. 

"I tried my best," Michael offered with a light chuckle to try and ease the air, "not exactly my fault we've all ended up here, was it?" 

Old John smiled a bit. "You'd be surprised," he teased. 

Michael didn't even have time to think before the man across from him began to speak animatedly, looking simultaneously younger in spirit and yet so far from the spirit of the younger John Michael knew. What a conundrum. 

"Oh but _do _let me warn you about London!" Old John expressed, looking exasperated. "It's so full these days, and people from all sorts of places immediately go there. Oh Mike, it's very different from London when you are..."__

__The younger man tilted his head slightly in confusion. For the young Michael, London had always been a place full of strange and engaging people and other cultures and ideas... It occurred to Michael that he probably didn't frequent the same parts of London that Old John was reminiscing over._ _

__"Ah well, time's almost up. That's nothing official of course, but I'm so bloody fucking tired these days," the white-haired John laughed, and Michael could have sworn he heard the whisperings of some kind of crazed evil chuckle. He tried to pay it no mind._ _

__"Look, Michael. You seem wary of me now, but my final message?" John paused and stared at Michael, who seemed to be either very focused or completely the opposite. John decided to continue regardless._ _

__"Fuck me, you're going to be incredible. I don't care if this convinces you not to talk to me until we're as old and grey as I am now, but eventually, we will all have individual pursuits. Follow yours, I could not stress this statement enough. You have a chance to end up better, Michael._ _

__Before Michael could ask the elderly John what or whom exactly Michael had a chance against, or even shout a goodbye, Michael was back in front of John's portrait._ _

__Old John had replaced the young, and sported a cocky grin. Too cocky, Michael thought as he avoided John's two-dimensional eyes and moved to another frame. Hopefully whoever this one, whoever it would be, was a bit nicer to Michael than Old John was. Once again, there was no time to think. A young Terry Gilliam's stony angled face gazed out so intensely that Michael had to turn away for fear of having a hole stared right through his body, so Gilliam's portrait would stare right through to the other wall._ _

__Michael, still looking away, took off his corduroy jacket and hung it over his right arm. He wondered if corduroy was still popular in a few decades, in the time the cast of his dream seemed to be from. By the time Michael began to work on the logistics, an invisible hand brought Michael's fingers to the taut canvas painted to look like Gilliam's own eye, and pulled him forward in a lurch that was becoming familiar for the young man..__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Not John Cleese being transphobic on the main again... Please note I don't condone what he's saying by putting him in this story, unfortunately he and Gilliam seem to have become cranky old men but at least the vast majority of Python stories on ao3 take place in the peak of their career when they were brilliant comedians who still had hope! Ah well, apologies for this interruption, I just couldn't let this go unsaid in a work that contains contemporary versions of those two Pythons.


	5. The Gilliam Theorem

The first thing Michael noticed was that Terry Gilliam's hair was gone. 

Well, not _all _gone, but enough to be a substantial difference from the shag that the younger Gilliam had sported for as long as Michael had known him.__

The old man grinned in a way that made Michael feel both recognized and uneasy. It was as if Gilliam's familiar smile had been shadowed by... Michael didn't know. Age? Reputation? Mentality? Nothing at all? 

Not that it mattered. If that was what he was here for, Michael couldn't tell. 

"So what've you been doing, Vance?" Michael asked. He was almost playing, teasing the older Terry with the middle name he hated. Michael was rewarded with a comically threatening glare from the man across him. 

"Directing, mostly," said Gilliam, shifting in his chair. "Some people think I'm the shit and some think I'm shit, period. Depends on who you ask these days." The older man laughed gruffly and did a brash impression of a fighting crowd. Michael cringed involuntarily. Evidently, Gilliam's bits didn't traverse well into old age. Maybe he was just out of touch. Terry G. had always had the American volume and arrogance in him, for better or for worse, whether the man denied it or not. 

"What type of movies?" Michael interrupted, at this point just trying to get through. He didn't want this version of Gilliam to ruin the current view he had of his friend. It sounded selfish, but hadn't Michael been nice enough to so many bloody people for so many fucking years? This was some kind of twisted nightmare regardless. 

"All kinds. Science fiction. Whatever I can put all the visuals in," was the elderly Gilliam's reply. Michael nodded back. 

"I should go." 

Gilliam threw his hands in the air in mock defeat, looking almost personally irritated by Michael's statement. 

"Watch out there. Keep making shit, Palin. And don't trust the moon." 

Michael smirked involuntarily as he furrowed his brow, puzzled by the old Gilliam's words. There was the moon again. Did they all know how he came here? Before Michael could ask anything or even say goodbye, Gilliam pushed himself out of the chair without any regard. 

Typical American, thought Michael, less as a derogatory statement and more as a tired observation. 

Back in the hallway after what Michael had started to personally refer to as "The Pullback", Gilliam's portrait had changed from the artist Michael knew well to one who's grin was too complicated for him to recognize. Would they all be this bad? He stepped over to the next portrait. 

"Neil Innes?" Michael pondered out loud. It was certainly an odd addition, but if he expected anyone to still be even slightly like their old selves it was Neil. The man had changed enough in his 30 odd years, Michael doubted he could do much more in another 40. 

Neil's face was small, serious. Michael reached up to touch the canvas and braced himself. 

The Pull was worse than the Pullback, he'd learned.


	6. Neil's Pastiche

Neil looked as though his whole shell had changed. No matter how different he may have looked, however, nothing could change the worried but smiling eyes, the small, perpetually upturned mouth, and the look of mischief that seemed to have matured but not diminished. 

Michael smiled, welcoming the familiarity, and the older Innes smiled back. This time, Michael did not feel the need to speak first. In fact, the two sat in comfortable silence for a little while before Neil finally gently spoke. 

"How's your family? I understand that technically I'm far past your point in time so it would seem like I shouldn't care because it's in the past, but I want to know how you're doing, Mike." 

Michael leaned forward a little into the conversation with this older Neil. "They're doing well, I suppose. Rachel..." Michael looked down and chuckled, not expecting to think of his children in as strange a dream as this. "Rachel just got past her "saying no to everything we offer" stage," Michael continued. "How did that project with Eric go?" 

Instantly old Neil's face fell somberly, and Michael knew he'd said something wrong. Oh well, worst case scenario he would find a way to activate the Pullback himself. 

"There was some kind of falling out a few years ago. Something stupid like royalties. Got out of hand, got to the press, even." Neil smiled sadly, just slightly. "They blew it out of proportions, of course, bloody tabloids. It wasn't a catfight like they said it was." Old Neil sighed. "But we still don't talk." 

"I'm sorry," Michael said and cleared his throat. 

Old Neil seemed to pep up a bit suddenly. 

"Well I don't want to make you wait too long, so I just want to say I'm proud of what you do, now and 40 years from whenever now is." 

Michael thanked him and acknowledged some songs Neil had written a few weeks earlier, and once again apologized for bringing up Eric. 

Neil wished him well and they stood. 

The Pullback came. 

Five down, two to go. Michael looked at the pleasantly smiling portrait of older Neil, hoping that the Neil he currently knew was that happy too. If only this wasn't all a figment of his imagination. 

The next picture Michael automatically walked over to was Terry, looking dark and noble, dark eyes piercing into the lens of the camera. That was always the one thing Michael was jealous about regarding his best friend. Terry had so much presence both onstage and off; it was mesmerizing to watch him hone his craft. 

Michael's fingers grazed the glass under the frame. Off he went again. His stomach lurched.


	7. Terry's Lullaby Address

It barely took Michael a few seconds to notice something very different.

The older Terry Jones sitting across from Michael was not only quiet in terms of silence, but also in his demeanor, the way he folded his slightly trembling hands, his posture just shy of asymmetrical.

This older Terry smiled a little, inviting Michael to speak as best he could.

"Hi Terry," said Michael, almost hesitant. "You look different from when I saw you last. Did you do something with your hair?" 

Terry gave a warm chuckle in response and Michael saw the quiet outside begin to fade and the Terry he knew, _his_ Terry, come through in familiar mannerisms.

"I'm surprised you could tell," smiled Terry, and Michael noticed some tears begin to creep into the corners of the elderly man's eyes. Before he could ask, Terry sighed. "I don't think you'll enjoy this update." 

"Why not?", Michael implored.

Why wouldn't he- oh. "Terry, you haven't—" 

"Afraid so," replied Terry, begrudgingly. "Although I couldn't have asked for better people to spend the last years with."

Michael found himself afraid to breathe in case this dream, this hallucination, this nightmare he was having, came true.

"Aphasia." That was all Terry said, and Michael understood, remembering reading some paper years ago about a man named Broca and communication loss. He wished he hadn't understood Terry, now all he was thinking of was how difficult it was to imagine his best friend, the artist, the writer, the visionary, losing his talent for spinning words into stories, arguments, theories, speeches, so much more.

"I'm sorry..."

It was all the young man could say, tears begging to fall. Michael wouldn't let them, trying to remind himself that none of this was real, just his tired mind trying its best to fill the space between work and exhaustion. Nevertheless, the older Terry felt like a person that Michael had known their whole lives, and right now that was all that mattered.

Terry moved a stray piece of grey hair from his forehead and tried his best to look as calm as he felt. "Don't you worry about me," he reassured Michael. "Just you wait for what we do together in the years to come. I'd give anything to go back to the next years you're about to have, Mike. I'm so proud of what we've accomplished."

Michael may have been quiet in meeting with the other portrait subjects but here, sitting across from his old best friend, he was more maudlin than anything else, unable to respond for fear of spilling carefully kept emotion.

The two men, the young and the young at heart, sat in the silence of the armchairs for the next few minutes, allowing themselves to feel and just enjoy the presence in a moment that saddened them both. No other words were spoken, not even when they got up. The pull was delayed this time, as if somehow Michael's mind gave him permission to hold this Terry, to hug him once before Michael had to move on and this figment of his imagination would cease to exist just like it said its real-life counterpart would many decades in the future. 

One final shoulder squeeze between the two and Michael felt the pull as he looked into this Terry's aged eyes, praying that what he'd said could never be true. 

It took the brunet a moment to adjust to the light back in the red hallway, wiping away the salty remnants of emotion as a smiling older Terry looked at his from behind the glass frame. Terry? Aphasia? There was no way...

Once again, Michael's unconscious movement gave him no time to think. He barely had time to process Graham's unimpressed and unsmiling blond face in the portrait before him when he felt his hand touch the cool surface.

This time, Michael tried closing his eyes. It made him feel sick, like when one closes their eyes on a fast-moving bus or when falling high from the trajectory of a swingset. Whatever the feeling was, Michael knew he could take it. It couldn't be worse than the meeting he had just gone through.


	8. Le Morte d'Arthur

Here Michael was, nauseous and toeing on mentally exhausted, at the final portrait, sitting before the final portrait subject.

The lines in this older Graham's face had deepened slightly, but his face bore the same bemused expression that the Graham Michael knew always wore, mouth closed and eyebrows raised just slightly. Recognizing the man before him was easy, far too easy, for Michael. Perhaps Chapman just always kept that power.

"Graham," said Michael, nodding as he adjusted himself in his seat. "Michael," Graham replied politely, mirroring the other's posture. They smiled at each other, an air of the forced professionalism of their relationship hanging between them stubbornly, and Michael was mid-proper greeting when Graham interrupted him.

"Michael, darling, I know I'm last so we don't have much time, but can I say before you go how much I admire you as a man?" 

The Michael in question tilted his head quizzically, smile contrasting his confused furrowed brow. "Thank you, Graham?" He breathed out in a chuckle, the end of his sentence hiking upwards, "You know I think of you the same." Graham mimicked the dark-haired man's tilted head again, unconsciously, ever so slightly, and Michael took the opportunity to look at him again, disregarding the unexpected awkwardness. The blond had aged well, almost too well, almost too— Michael's smile fell, the weight dropping to a heavy anxious pit in his chest. 

"Not you too," he whispered, barely shaking his head in beaten exaggeration, "Not you, Gray." 

Chapman only raised his eyebrows and sighed, brows raised, cheeks puffing out slightly as he exhaled. "I'm glad I got to know you all, you bastards," was all he said, raising an invisible toast to the man seated across from him. "It's alright, you know. I quit drinking a while ago. I was in the same house until the last bit. David and John were there. I'm _happy,_ Mike. That's all I need to leave you with." 

Michael chuckled a little, ignoring the saltwater pooling on his bottom lid. "I'm sorry. I wish..." 

He trailed off and shrugged, leaning forward to express his statement wordlessly, pulling the older Chapman into a half-hug, patting his back. 

"You should go." 

"I know, Graham. Just wanted to tell you that," Michael replied, setting himself back in his own chair, adjusting his jacket on his tired shoulders. 

"Before you go," Graham added, seemingly remembering something, "If I'm correct, I'm the last one you needed to talk to. There's a door once you're done. Go home, Mike. Don't think about the logistics of this. Rest." 

"I will," Micheal said, and wished Graham a final goodbye, standing up one last time, exasperated and ready to forget about whatever strange dream this was. He stood, trying to welcome the pull that would only overwhelm him one more time 


	9. Echo or the Answer

Finally, all the portraits smiled at Michael in one way or another, their age now visible in their faces. Graham had told him about a door, all he needed to do was walk out of it.

But where the hell was it?

He looked down the halls to his right and left, the blank dead ends still mocking him. Nothing on the floor or the ceiling, either. It was only then he remembered he'd never bothered to turn around, as he could feel the wall behind him. Worth a try, now, just in case

His reflection startled him, directly at his eye level, in a frame not unlike the others behind him. Michael stepped back for a closer look and found that, in the framed mirror, he was completely colourless against the red wall behind him. Even stranger was that from any angle, the other portraits behind him were not visible in the reflection. He waved his hand over them, even turned around to confirm they were still physically present, but the mirror simply refused to show any face but his, in black and white.

Michael felt his hand raise gingerly toward his own reflected portrait, not sure what would happen, but did he really have a choice?

When his hand met the mirror he could have sworn he felt another hand, not glass, press against his skin, but it was too late to bother pondering over that. The process had already begun, the light and time washed over him.

The young man really had no idea what to expect when he opened his eyes, but his father looking back at him was certainly not high on the list of probability. He shook his head, rubbed his exhausted eyes with the bottoms of his palms, blinked, and looked again.

It wasn't his father at all.

Is that really how he ended up looking?

Michael studied the lines in the face of his elderly self, exasperated but more curious than anything. He'd certainly aged better than John, at least.

The man (older Michael? Himself? Michael had no idea how to refer to him in his mind) coughed, trying to get his younger counterpart's attention. "You thought it was over, didn't you?" The younger Michael tried not to roll his eyes. Older him seemed so serious, and he'd had it up to _here_ with creepy old bastards with their likeness hanging on the wall. "Yes?" he said, leaning back. The older man chuckled in a way that Michael knew felt familiar, as it was unmistakably his own. "You're still so full of yourself. Of course. You have a long way to go, Mike." The young Mike kept his mouth shut, reverting to his responses from way back at the first portrait, giving the man across from him as little as possible. He just had to get out and then he could wake up alone in his own home.

The silver-haired Michael frowned, growing as impatient as the other man. "With that attitude, you'll never get this knighthood I've got, will you?" He chuckled at how the younger man perked up at his words. He knew himself so well.

"Let me tell you this, Michael, and don't you forget it," the elderly Michael continued, "You've made plenty of good decisions and twice as many bad ones. You have plenty of bad ones left to make, but never, _ever_ , take any of them for granted, alright?"

The brunet nodded like an apathetic child, doing his best to ignore his older self's words bouncing around his skull, getting louder at every echo.

"Be like that, then," Sighed the older Palin, "I'm still the best of the bunch."

With that, Michael was cut off, his last image that of the elder Michael smirking playfully as he brought his hand up to snap his fingers. The lined face is still there, staring back at him with his message still clear, but Michael was back in the quiet of the hallway.

He didn't have time to reflect. He didn't _need_ to reflect, why would he? All this talk about the moon the others had mentioned. They were a figment of his dream, of _his_ imagination, so why should he care? All he needed to do was wake up. This was getting tiring.

Turning to his left, he let out a content and exhausted groan at the sight of a wooden door, slightly ajar. Michael picked up his pace, looking at the portraits as he went, absentmindedly.

He picked his brown curls off his desk, pen still in hand. The strip of the full moon had moved away from the ink of the paper in its cycle. Michael paid it no mind, foggy brain telling him to scribble the portraits of the faces he could still process with pen and ink still wobbling slightly between his crooked fingers.

So he drew them, half asleep, crudely.

Eric first, long locks falling softly.

Then Carol, stern and soft.

He sketched John, sporting his familiar seriousness.

Then Gilliam, head tilted slightly in judgment as it was in the portrait.

Next was Neil, and Michael's wrist was getting sore.

Terry was next. Michael tried to remind himself it was only a dream.

His forehead was threatening to hit the desk as he traced Graham's face, still distracting himself.

He took more time sketching himself, not really knowing why, trying to remember what his older self looked like.

As his hand finally slipped, he heard the phone ring, knocking him out of the trance he'd been in for who knows how many hours. He picked up groggily, trying not to scream at whatever poor soul was on the other line.

"Hello?" He tried, gritting his teeth to stay awake.

"Mike! Hullo, it's Eric. I need advice, I met this girl a bit ago— God, she's gorgeous— I think I might be moving on, and—"

"What's her name?"

"Pardon?"

"What's her name?" Repeated Michael, rubbing his eyes.

"Tanya," said Eric, caught off guard, "Her name is Tanya."

"Oh," said Michael, yawning. "I'm happy for you, mate. I'm about to pass out at the moment, I'll call you in a bit, yeah?"

"Yeah— it's not urgent, just happy. Take a rest, Mike."

As Eric wished him well, still a little bemused, Michael hung up the phone haphazardly and rubbed his face in his hands, sitting back in his chair and leaning over the drawings on his desk. Eric caught his eye, all lines and scratches— hadn't Eric said something in his dream about...

Tanya.

Eric in his dream had said Michael would meet his new lady, Tayna.

So it was real, somehow.

Michael sighed as his eyelids fell closed. He should’ve asked them the lottery numbers.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally finished it! It took me a few months with school and entering some other fandoms but I could never leave my meta Python alone, could I?


End file.
